Birfday

Yup. The big day is looming. I'm really old now. I'll probably start looking all stooped over pretty soon, and any day now I'll develop that old lady smell that's like wet dog and old dirt mingled with mothballs and Chanel number 5. Who knows, maybe I already have that odor. Additionally, I'll start tucking balled up kleenex into the sleeve of my cardigan or somewhere in my bosom.

I've started arguing with one of my friends, also old, about which of us is more forgetful. We go back and forth for a few rounds then we forget what the hell we're talking about.

I should probably start being nice to my kids so that they'll put me in a decent nursing home. I guess to that end I ought to stop telling them that if they're bad I'll send them back to their real mommies.
Miss H. has this all figured out; she retrieves pictures of me taken while I was very pregnant, and pictures of us all leaving the hospital together, and pictures of me putting her as a newborn into various kitchen vessels (stew pot, roasting pan) to see where she'd fit. Using these as evidence, she states that I am, indeed, her real Mommy. I believe that I only actually played this game with The Boy once and he just started crying, so now we just see who can burp louder (me).

I guess if they run short on nursing home funds for me, they can sell Archie Bunker on the black market for his organs. I think kidneys fetch a nice sum, and along with the liver they'll probably raise enough for me to have a private room and a Filipino sitter .

Preschool Skank

My sweet baby boy seems to have developed a small crush on some little cootie queen. All year he has stayed in the boy's corner building towers and crushing things with his scabby band of brothers, now suddenly he's all smitten over this little tramp, Maria.

I know this because hers is the only female name outside of his teachers and the lunch lady that he has committed to memory. He knows his buddie's names, and he calls all the little girls "that girl". Except, suddenly, Maria. I don't know who she is, but I'm thinking straight-up ho; probably wearing Lucite Mary-Jane's with a slot for tips.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm the only female that he should be worshiping, at least until he turns five.

Front Butt

OK Miss CG, now do you get it? Sadly, the Front Butt does not actually require obesity, it can occur in people who are quite well proportioned; hence the warning issued with respect to the higher waistlines of the season.
The front butt, as previously mentioned, is indigenous to the state of Indiana. When we were kids in Indiana, we used to refer to this sartorial mishap as "Cow Piss", as it appears that the volume contained in the bladder is similar to that which may be contained by something bovine. Now that I'm a mature adult, I have opted for the much more respectable term "front butt".
In instances involving obesity, "front butt" is not technically correct; there is a term which is more specific for that situation. The correct term is "bootydo", as in "your gut hangs down lower that your booty do".
I completely regret this digression into the realm of fashion, and will soon return to my primary purpose of trashing my husband.

Spring fashion review (in rather poor taste)

CAMEL TOE / MUFFIN TOP / WHALE TAIL


Study break = quick review at magazine rack in the bookstore. My offerings and observations are provided here, as I am a bit of a fashion Icon (for second hand, 3-seasons-old type shoppers).
I have thoughtfully provided illustrations of the below mentioned fashion problems. I am NOT the model in any of these.

So, the 2008 spring fashion magazine review:

• Any article of clothing described in a fashion magazine as"flirty" is generally intended for, well, the workin' gal. Be advised that "flirty" is a code word for "slutty".
  

• The good news: the waistlines are moving up, so we'll be seeing a few less butt cracks with the accompanying "Whale Tail" or "Bat Sign", as you prefer. This should also eliminate the dreaded "Muffin Top" created by too-small low waisted pants.

• The bad news: the higher waistline will convert "Muffin Top" to an even worse phenomena known as "front butt" which has never lost it's allure in most of the state of Indiana. I could not find an appropriate illustration for the "front butt" but it is a fairly descriptive term.
  

• More bad news: elimination of the "Whale Tale" can also produce "Camel Toe", and it it possible to have simultaneous "Camel Toe" and "Front Butt". I have not come up for a name for this fashion horror just yet. Let's just try to avoid it, ok?
  

• $3,000.00 handbags? I'm sorry, I have to draw the line at the $800.00 shoes. The $800.00 shoes at least have the redeeming quality of being good for business.

Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

Another Mother's day.

Would someone please tell Nick that on Mother's day, it is conventional to honor not only your own mother dead or alive (dead in Nick's case), but also to recognize the mother of your own children??
Isn't it enough that we were at the mercy of his mother for her living years? This is the fourth Mother's Day since her departure, but she still rules the day. I know we are not supposed to speak ill of the dead but I'm typing, not talking; I think that makes it ok.

Anyone who needs a recap of the late great Madame G., please watch the first 2 seasons of The Sopranos and pay attention to Tony's mom, and yes, she really was that mean. If ever Nick was a sympathetic character, it would be in matters concerning his mother. Thats all I'm saying.

Mother's day whilst Madame G. was living:

The Martyr:
We show up. We are greeted by the matriarch thusly: "Oh, let's just forget it. It's too late now, I know you had to call your (my) mom. I know she's just so important to you... , we'll get together some other time, you can just go call your mom again and I'll just go and sit alone in my darkened house and hope that one of my other children will visit."

Then: "Oh, you brought me flowers, that's nice, but I really only like silk flowers because they don't shed, why don't you just take those back home with you?"
Next, cajoling and pleading by Nick, eventually garnering her grudging assent to be taken out, this leading into to the next practiced step: "No, No, I am not choosing the restaurant! You (me) pick the restaurant this year."
I fell into this trap once before and lived to regret it due to the astonishing scene which involved food being thrown, and NOT by the children. This ploy was designed to make me insist that, by happy coincidence, the shitty family style restaurant that she preferred was also my very favorite.

The Bully:
You could see the hostess literally flinch as we approached; she knew she was doomed. Madame G. was not a frequent guest, but she made a lasting impression. The last time we'd visited, the same hostess had been forced to re-seat us twice, then move the victimized party that ended up next to us. The hostess truly was doomed; wherever she tried to seat us was going to be a personal slight to Madame G, and she would dole out a taste of the wrath. The hostess would be accused of trying do hide us away in the back, or put us too close to the kitchen, or too close to the restroom, or too close to the window,etc., etc. After finally successfully seating us, she'd be off the hook until our departure, at which time any complimentary items such as mints or matchbooks would be shamelessly pocketed, and hopefully non-complimentary items would be somehow secured or placed out of easy reach. No matter if they weren't though, most of the staff would have stood there and let us take their first-born just to see us out the door.

The Beast:
The next victim would be the waitress. Nick would usually try to say something nice, inquiring politely if she had children of her own, how was it going working mothers day, and so on. Any response not directly relating to our upcoming food order would earn her a full on attack from Madame G., during which the waitress was told that we didn't need her life history in order for her to serve us lunch. Following this, I would usually excuse myself to the ladies room, try to locate our poor victim, slip her and extra $20 and tell her to hang in there. At least she wouldn't be spitting in my soup. Nick would try to keep Madame G. from making a complete scene, and attempt to quiet her down, particularly in the event that we were near a group that was anything but whitebread heterosexuals, otherwise the gender and racial insults would start flying.

Usually I'd return to the table to find her interrogating my children about whether mommy made herself throw up in the potty after she ate, and whether or not I was serving canned or frozen foods to her son (the throwing up thing was a bit confusing for H., as vomiting had become sort of a hobby for me during my pregnancy with N). Based upon the confused answers of a 3 year old, Madame G. concluded that I was bulimic, and told Nick that he shouldn't buy food for me, because I'd just waste it. Then she'd tell me that this wasn't Hollywood, and so why did I have to be so thin? THEN she'd tell me about Nick's beautiful ex, the model, and how she really did need to be that thin and, on and on and on.

Then the pork roast would come. There were two alternatives for the inevitable food complaint, usually requiring a visit from the manager. Complaint #1: It's dry, not enough gravy Complaint #2: To much gravy, probably trying to disguise poor quality or old meat. Either way she wasn't going to eat it (she was full after cleaning out the bread basket), didn't want to be charged full price because of complaint #1 or #2, and wanted to take it home with her, but she would pack it up herself, thank you very much.

Eventually she'd take great pains to point out to Nick that his wife (who happened to be standing next to him) was not doing a good job of keeping the baby's face clean, "oh could someone please clean off that baby's face, it is such a shame to have such a beautiful baby with a dirty face."

Then she'd wipe out the hostess stand, we'd drop her off, and blessedly, Mother's day would be over with.

So now she's gone. Nick still buys her flowers (new, not used; see Valentine's day/sloppy seconds post) and steals flowers from someone else's grave to bring home to me. Oh well, it beats pork roast served by a terrified waitress & discussion of my eating disorder. Still, coffee in bed or maybe a little tiny box of chocolates would be nice. Maybe next year; H. will be 7 and I can probably trust her to do the coffee thing with no scalds.

Popping the crazy button

You know those timers in the Thanksgiving turkey that pop up when the turkey is finished cooking (or turned into sawdust, as per Alton Brown)? Well if Nick had a button that popped up when he went completely off the rails, it popped this morning. I don't think that if he put on a tutu and did cartwheels down the parkway that I could be any more convinced.

This conclusion is based on his soliloquy which started last night and resumed this morning upon his waking. It was primarily devoted to my poor organizational and time management skills.

I decided that pointing out that his organizational skills are the ones that led him to decide that the best way to arrange the family room furniture would be in a vertical fashion, with one sofa placed on top of the other. This was done to allow room for the addition of a 6 foot folding table for him to put his ever growing mounds of papers on, as the little fucker started pissing on the ones left on the floor. What did he think they meant by "paper trained"??

The arrangement is somewhat prohibitive for my mom; maybe we should just get a ladder, then she'd be able to get up there and we wouldn't have to worry so much about another broken hip. Myself, I think it's sorta classy; why not showcase all your furniture, even if you have to stack it?

Nick's recent bout of craziness is in response to the news that The Board has seen fit to allow me to sit for exams. Now what were they thinking? This will force Nick to participate in the feeding and care of our children, and this is very unsettling to him. He's torn between not wanting my mom here to help vs. having to figure out where the laundry facilities are, and how the hell you operate them.

Additionally, I worry about his ability to remember to pick to kids up; he claims to have "a system"; however I have some reservations. This is because even after having had the same office schedule for 3 years, he still cannot figure out which days I work. Every Thursday without fail, he calls the office and asks my secretary where I am, then calls me to see if I'm sick or just being a princess or what. EVERY Thursday.

He hates it when my mother is here because then he can't yell (as much), and he seems to be inhibited enough by her presence that he opts against sitting around drinking beer in his boxers after work. Thank God for Mom.